


Do My Hands Deceive Me

by lesbianettes



Category: Chicago Med
Genre: Blood, Bodyguard!AU, Choking, M/M, Multi Chapter, Sexual Harassment, Smut, Unhealthy Coping, Violence, basically some gay shit but with angst and pining, bodyguard!ethan, crockett is the son of a senator, drug usage, nonconsensual drugging, sex as a method of self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-01-08 07:22:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21231974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbianettes/pseuds/lesbianettes
Summary: After leaving the military, Ethan gets a job as a bodyguard.





	1. Chapter 1

When Ethan first applies to the job, he definitely doesn’t know what he’s getting into. 

He just needs something to do with himself, after the navy, and his skills lend well to being a bodyguard. He has a concealed carry permit, he’s trained in hand-to-hand combat, and he’s got amazing reflexes. Not to brag, of course, but he’s good at what he does, and this feels like the logical next step. Here, in front of a large intimidating desk, wearing his nicest suit and keeping his posture military rigid as he’s asked question after question by the senator.

“You do need to know,” she says, “that my son is… difficult.”

“Difficult how?”

She shifts uncomfortably in her chair. “He’s about your age, but he- he never really matured, if that makes sense. He’s impulsive, and he likes to party, and his last three or four bodyguards have just quit. Crockett doesn’t think. He gets in a lot of trouble and he likes to ditch security.”

Sounds exactly like the sort of rich, spoiled little bastard Ethan figured he’d wind up looking after. This isn’t just a job, though, it has become a challenge. The people before him couldn’t handle Crockett Marcel, but Ethan will. He’s dealt with his fair share of entitled assholes who think they no best. 

“I’m sure it won’t be a problem, Ms. Marcel. I’m known for my patience.”

“I hope so.” She sends a message on her phone. “Crockett’ll be here in just a minute. I’ll have the contract emailed to you to go over. If you decide to stay at the end of the month, we’ll make things official.”

One month to prove he can handle Crockett Marcel. One month of making four thousand (four thousand!) dollars and if he’s still up for it, it goes up to five. Plus health care, and a car, and he gets to live in the senator’s mansion so he can keep an eye on Crockett. It’ll be demanding, but Ethan has always loved a challenge. Worst thing that happens is he declines the contract in thirty days. 

And then Crockett arrives, walking lazily through the door in a pair of oversized sweatpants slipping down his body, mismatched socks, and no shirt. There’s a tattoo on his arm too. And he’s beautiful, for lack of a better word. Wide eyes and heavy lashes, smooth skin, full lips, nose and jaw cut from the finest marble, bedhead messing his soft hair. He’s like something out of a film. And with the way he lets the waistband of his sweatpants slip down a little more, probably an adult one.

Ethan gets to his feet and holds out his hand. “Ethan Choi, nice to meet you.”

“Aren’t you polite?” Crockett shakes his hand. “Crockett Marcel. You this month’s lackey?”

“Bodyguard.”

“Hmm.”

Crockett turns on his heel and walks out, leaving Ethan to trail behind at Ms. Marcel’s nod. He walks like he knows all the attention he commands, like he expects everyone to watch how his waist tapers and disappears, like he knows people are desperate to see beneath the waistband. Brat. But a beautiful one who yawns as they turn down a hallway.

“I give it a week.”

“I’m sorry?”

He looks over his shoulder as he opens a door. “I don’t think you’ll last a week as my new  _ bodyguard _ . You’re too uptight.”

Ethan laughs and follows Crockett into the room. It’s a bedroom, kept clean undoubtedly by a maid, but it screams Crockett. The covers on the four poster are dark, and there are posters and pictures up on the wall. An ashtray beside the bed still has a home rolled joint sending smoke up into the air, bringing a heavy scent into the air that makes Ethan want to cough. And then, of course, Crockett drops his pants to the ground and steps out of them, definitely not wearing any underwear.

“Woah.”

“If it bothers you, don’t look.”

He starts rummaging through his dresser for clothes, tossing them one by one toward his bed with little accuracy. Skinny jeans, a mesh top, and something that’s probably underwear but isn’t that much fabric. Because of course Crockett’s like this. Difficult may be an understatement.

Crockett starts with the underwear, a jock strap, as it turns out. It frames his ass beautifully, making it look round and perky and Ethan really wants to just get his hands on him. Thinking about it makes him feel like a pervert, so he focuses his gaze on the wall. 

“I’m going to a party tonight. Don’t scare off my friends.”

It takes him a lot of jumping and wiggling to get his jeans up his legs. The mesh top only takes a second, and somehow feels more illicit than a bare chest as Crockett ruffles his hair again. The mess must be part of his look. Then, as Ethan watches, he picks up his joint and takes a long drag before blowing smoke up into the air, furthering the stuffiness of the room. Someone should open a window from time to time.

“You can have anything you want from the bar,” Crockett says, leading the way back out of the room. “They’ll put it on my tab. You can let loose, have a little fun.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I won’t be drinking.”

Crockett rolls his eyes and grabs Ethan’s hand to pull him along faster. He’s warm to the touch, deceptively strong. And these jeans really do look good on him. Right now, still smoking on his walk through the house, Crockett is a disaster waiting to happen and a pretty boy who knows exactly how he looks to the world.

The SUV they get into already has a driver waiting, and Crockett winks when Ethan opens the door for him. Going out in a suit isn’t ideal, but if all goes well, he’ll be able to pay for dry cleaning, and probably even a new suit. And he has his gun holstered at his side in case of emergency. This won’t be too bad, even as Crockett decides to use Ethan’s lap as his own personal foot rest.

“So, Ethan Choi,” Crockett says, snubbing his joint in the cupholder, “how did you wind up here?”

“I used to be a SEAL, and an old friend of mine said your mother was hiring. I thought it might help me settle in,” he answers. Instantly Crockett’s eyes light up and he leans forward. “What?”

“You could probably break me in half,” he says dreamily. 

There’s got to be something seriously wrong with this man. “You need to calm down.”

Crockett waves a hand dismissively and relaxes again, humming to himself until they arrive at the club. It’s just past dinner time, a bit early to go clubbing, but Crockett is practically bouncing as Etha lets him out of the car and trails him to the door. He leaves a respectful few feet between them, but watches closely. This is a test, a chance for everyone to find out how seriously he takes his job and if he can actually protect Crockett. If not from others, then from himself. 

The bouncer waves them both in immediately, and there’s a surprising amount of people already on the floor or at the bar. It’s loud, between their conversations and the music, and for a moment Ethan loses track of Crockett. It makes his heart stop. But he quickly finds him again, standing at the edge of the dance floor with his arms around some man’s neck. It’s not enough to worry yet, but Ethan keeps a close eye on them from against the wall. He doesn’t blend in, but that’s because he had no warning. So he watches, and he thinks. Was Crockett already planning on coming here, or was it an impulse decision? He doesn’t know him well enough yet to be able to tell.

But he’s able to notice that Crockett’s doing something he shouldn’t be. He hands a couple crisp bills to the man he was dancing with and, in return, receives a little baggie of white powder. Their deal finishes with a kiss, sloppy and dirty with the other man’s hand grabbing Crockett’s ass hard for the duration. Jesus. Ethan shakes his head and approaches, holding his hand out expectantly when Crockett notices him.

“Want a line?” Crockett asks, half smiling. His lips are swollen and his eyes alight. “You’ll have to roll your own little straw, sharing is gross.”

“Hand me the bag.”

Crockett scoffs, but places the drugs in Ethan’s open palm without much of a fight. “You know, you’re no fun.”

“Behave.”

“Gonna do something about it, sweetheart?”

He rolls his eyes and Crockett goes back into the crowd. Ethan keeps an eye on him, but his thoughts stray to what it is that made Crockett this way. The drugs, the partying. According to the senator, he’s about thirty, thirty five. He’s acting like he’s still in his early twenties. Something had to have happened, or not happened, to make him like this. He doubts Crockett will open up about it, just like that. 

The rest of the night, Crockett drinks, smokes, dances. He doesn’t buy any more drugs, at the very least. It goes on until even Ethan is tired, and then Crockett is stumbling to the door on the arm of a guy who’s tipsy, but nowhere near as shit faced. Ethan walks after them, all sorts of alarm bells going off, as they make it to the car. He lets Crockett into the car, and is about to shut the door, but Crockett whines and bats lightly at Ethan’s arm. 

“Nooo, he’s coming home too.”

Against his better judgement, Ethan lets the man in.

And then spends the twenty minute ride sitting beside the two as they make out, Crockett occasionally moaning, the man’s hand down his skinny jeans. Difficult. Ethan stares out the window and pretends not to notice, and when they get home, trails them up the stairs to Crockett’s room.

Crockett closes and locks the door behind them, keeping Ethan out.

He stands there, on guard, waiting, and listens for an hour as Crockett moans and screams, as the headboard slams against the wall, as the man moans too, as the sounds get quieter and then, the door flings open. The man looks Ethan up and down, nods, and leaves. 

Ethan peeks into the room and his heart breaks. 

Crockett’s shirt is still on, his jeans halfway off. There’s a mess all over him. His face has a bright hand print on it. It looks like a crime scene, not the aftermath of sex, but when Ethan approaches, Crockett smiles up at him and wipes the mess off himself with one of his plush pillows.

“Are you okay?”

“Never better.”

Somehow, he doesn’t believe him. “Did that man hurt you?”

“First time around the block?” Crockett sits upright and reaches into his nightstand, pulling out a plastic lighter and another homemade joint. “Some people like it rough, Ethan. Get used to it.”


	2. Chapter 2

Come morning, Crockett aches. His legs, his face, his neck. He’s got a fresh collection of bruises to admire now, and he figures Ethan will be tendering his resignation today, if he hasn’t already. It was a good night, minus getting his coke confiscated, and he relishes in the burn of each agonized muscle as he makes his way to the shower. Already, it’s late morning. Brunch sounds nice. Some french toast with powdered sugar, a mimosa with the good champagne, bacon fried up just for him. God, he loves these hungover, fatty breakfasts.

But as soon as he walks out into the hallway, holding a bundle of clothes to protect his modesty (only because he doesn’t want to upset mom more after Ethan quit) and wondering if the chef will hear him yelling for breakfast, he finds that he’s not alone. Ethan’s there, in the hallway, and isn’t he put together this morning? Hair gelled, wearing a button down and jeans that are  _ absolutely _ tailored, arms crossed.

“Tendering your resignation?” Crockett asks, tilting his head to show off the collection of hickeys around the bruise from being choked. “No hard feelings, I knew you’d be gone soon.”

Ethan shakes his head. “I’m here to stay.”

Oh, so he thinks he knows best. Good for him. Crockett rolls his eyes and continues his path to the bathroom. “Tell the kitchen I want french toast, bacon, and a mimosa. Please and thank you.”

“I’m not your assistant.”

He shuts the bathroom door, and listens for Ethan’s feet to go away anyways. He’ll tell the kitchen. And that leaves Crockett to start the water, near scalding and perfect to wash away the stickiness left from sweat and not properly cleaning himself up last night. He was tired, sue him. Ethan took his coke. He’ll have to snoop later to find it, but first he ought to clean himself up and get downstairs for the usual morning after. Everyone knows by now what his little celebration breakfast is. He bathes with ease, cleans himself up, and even uses his fancy little cologne when he gets redressed. Being naked is more comfortable, but clearly, that won’t be scaring Ethan away.

He’ll still probably show off some more. Ethan’s gorgeous, and hey, if he’s here, at least Crockett knows what he’s getting into. It’s like buying from the same dealer each time. Safer. Guarantee of satisfaction. Of course, he’ll have to find out if Ethan knows what to do with that body, but chances are, he’s pretty good with it. Someone doesn’t go through life looking like that and not learn a thing or two.

When he gets downstairs, breakfast is on the table, and Ethan’s got a boring plate of paste. Oatmeal, actually. But Crockett decides it’s paste as he takes a delicate sip of his mimosa. Just the right side of more-champagne-than-needed-before-noon. His favorite. And it pairs so nicely with his french toast as he considers the day’s activities.

“I want to go shopping today,” he decides. Ethan looks up at him, thoroughly unimpressed. “You seem like a man with taste. Help me pick something out for the next time I go clubbing.”

“Sure.”

They finish breakfast in silence. Boring. But Crockett can feel Ethan’s eyes on him, on his bruises and the way he sits because his entire lower body hurts with last night’s actions he barely remembers. Memory doesn’t matter, he reasons. He’s fine. He had fun.

Presumably.

He eats most of his breakfast and gets through two mimosas before standing up and grabbing onto Ethan’s bicep. Good muscles. They’d look amazing holding Crockett down as he’s fucked within an inch of his life, and that’s now higher on the agenda than annoying Ethan into quitting. He doesn’t need a babysitter, thank you very much.

“Did I tell you yesterday how hot you are?”

Ethan walks to the car like Crockett didn’t ask, like he’s not practically hanging off him. 

“Because you are. If I’m honest, I’d kill to find out what you’re hiding in those-”

And Ethan clears his throat to cut him off, but it’s gotten somewhere. There’s a faint flush on his cheeks, the tops of his ears. Proof of progress. Crockett gives himself two weeks, maximum, before he’s got Ethan railing him into the mattress. Maybe he’ll even be sober for the occasion.

Beautiful, Crockett decides, and leans his head against Ethan’s shoulder. “We don’t have to go out. I can just take you back up to my room?”

Again, no response. But Ethan opens the front door for him, and then that of the car. He’s patient and stiff as Crockett reads out the address of his favorite strip mall, and stares out the window the entire ride. Unbreakable. Stunning. Crockett feels something, maybe a challenge, in his chest as he watches the world stream past as a background to Ethan’s profile. Maybe this whole thing was a joke. A setup to see how he’d react to the unattainable. Joke’s on his mother, because nothing is out of reach when you’re Crockett Marcel, thank you very much. He’s got money, influence, and a willingness to put out. What more could someone want?

At the strip mall, he makes a beeline for his favorite little boutique. Technically they’re mostly women’s clothes, but Crockett looks fantastic in them and no one is going to refuse to sell to him. They have light wash jeans in the window, and Crockett’s never been big on them, but he figures he might as well try. And of course, get Ethan’s opinion on how he looks. He  _ has _ been told that wearing more light colors would compliment his complexion.

Before he even reaches the door, there’s a hand on him. On his ass, more specifically. But then it’s gone, and he turns expecting to see a shy Ethan avoiding his gaze, but instead finds some random man pressed up against a wall, arm wrenched painfully behind his back, pinned in place by Ethan. This is hotter than it should be.

“Never touch him again,” Ethan growls, further tugging on his arm to make him wince. “Now apologize.”

“Ethan-”

Crockett’s words are ignored.

“Apologize.”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” the man says, struggling with little success. “Jesus. It was just a joke.”

Ethan finally lets him go and the man walks away, rubbing his wrist. But more importantly, Ethan’s holding Crockett now, looking him over. “Are you alright.”

“I’m fine,” he says, and as they walk in, he realizes no one has ever defended him from something like that. “Thanks.”

Everyone before Ethan- every boyfriend, every bodyguard, every friend- has laughed it off like it’s nothing, or called Crockett names. Slut, mostly. And they’re not wrong. But Ethan defended him, pulled the man away and demanded an apology. It’s new and strange and honestly, a little frightening. Crockett doesn’t know what to do with what’s just happened.

For the rest of their shopping trip, he feels like he’s going through the motions. Buying what he wants, trying on revealing clothes to get Ethan’s attention, flirting with whoever’s willing to speak to him. But none of it feels real, because of an action as simple as telling a grabby stranger no.

Crockett doesn’t think even he has ever defended himself against something like that.

After shopping, he decides he needs to do something to account for this, and decides on taking Ethan to dinner at one of the nicer restaurants in the area. Steak and fine wine and incredible desserts- the whole nine yards. He doesn’t know what else to do. And when Ethan leads him in, keeps a hand on his back protectively, he feels almost cared for.

“Ever been here?” He asks as the waiter hands them menus. The low light is stunning on Ethan’s cut features. God, he could be a model. Maybe Crockett will hire someone to take picture after picture of Ethan just for admiration.

“Never.”

Crockett leans over the table and points out a dish. “This is so good, it’ll practically kill you. You’ve gotta try it.” For good measure, he adds, “It’s on me.”

Then wine comes, and they order, but the air between them is loaded. Heavy. There are things to say, things Crockett isn’t prepared to say because he simply doesn’t have the words right now. For lack of anything else to do, Crockett drinks. He drinks until it doesn’t hurt, and until Ethan gives him an indulgent smile as he goes to the bathroom.

He fishes a small baggie out of his pocket. He knew he had something stashed in this pair of pants. Cocaine, a thin line he makes on the bathroom with his credit card and inhales with a thin-rolled receipt for the cropped sweatshirt he bought labeled “BABE” in pink letters. It always burns.

When he looks up at himself in the mirror, he does not see a person worthy of protection from passersby who decide that they want to play grab ass. He does not see the pedigree son of a senator who will one day do great things. He does not see anything but a battered body and a bloody nose, and so he buries his face in his hands to hide the reflection. 

For a long time, he stands there. It must be, because eventually Ethan comes and picks him up. Crockett is limp, like a rag doll. His whole body buzzes and hums, and he almost feels normal, but the world is still angry around him. He’s energized. But he’s tired. 

Above all, he’s with Ethan, held securely in a walk to the car, buckled into his seat, and eventually carried into the house. His mother has people over. He waves at them, and they don’t wave back. Ethan brings him all the way to his room and sets him on his bed, starts working off his pants.

“Gonna make me feel good?” he asks, and his voice doesn’t sound right.

Ethan tosses his pants away and replaces them with soft flannel that he probably had to search for in Crockett’s dresser. When did he have the time to do that? They’re warm though, comforting, and then his tight shirt is replaced with something oversized and equally soft. Ethan could do anything he wanted right now, and Crockett would let him. Wouldn’t be able to stop him, really. But instead, Ethan cares for him and tucks the covers around him carefully so he doesn’t get chilly in his sleep.

“Stay?” he asks.

“I’ll be right back,” Ethan says, and shuts off the light as he leaves.

Before he finds out if Ethan actually does come back, he falls into a heavy sleep. Come morning, he wakes up alone. Like always, alone.


	3. Chapter 3

Ethan does intend to come back. He showers, gets ready for bed. But when he returns to the bedroom, Crockett is already asleep, and it feels wrong to crawl into bed with a passed out, drugged up young man who clearly has issues with boundaries. He’s more determined than ever to figure out what happened to cause this. Clearly, there was something wrong in his past, something that traumatized him and pushed him toward this pseudo-adulthood so dependant on the approval of strangers and pain masked as intimacy. Ethan has to call it what it is- self harm.

In the morning, Crockett is back to normal, or whatever semblance of it he holds. Alive and kicking, a little hungover, and determined to pretend that the day before never happened. 

“I don’t drink wine,” he says firmly, despite having downed a handful of glasses. “And I would  _ never _ do coke in a public restroom. I have standards.”

But something has changed, when Ethan looks closely. He keeps catching Crockett watching him, not with the usual mischievous look, but with something like curiosity, admiration. It’s different on his face, but beautiful. Oh, so beautiful, just as every part of him. In spite of the changes, however, he’s still Crockett, and Ethan is hardly surprised when he starts stripping in front of him in the middle of the backyard to go skinny dipping. It’s in character.

He does, from the lawn chair pulled into the shade, admire the way Crockett looks doing lazy laps in the cold water. His muscles aren’t well defined, but they’re kept, and the water can only distort so much of his rich brown skin. There are no tan lines to suggest Crockett has ever entertained a bathing suit when coming to his pool or perhaps sunbathing on this very chair. It would be a very Crockett thing to do, Ethan decides.

For a couple hours, he just watches Crockett swim. And then they watch movies inside, Crockett smoking a joint to the audio of the breakfast club. A movie star in his own right. The day is boring, compared to the last two, and ends with Crockett locking himself in his room- right next to Ethan’s- and loudly doing something unmistakably illicit. It’s too easy to picture him touching himself and tilting his head back, lips parted. Each moan carries through the plaster when Ethan’s this close to the wall, and he isn’t trying to listen, but it’s inescapable.

He winds up palming himself through his clothes too. It feels wrong, somehow. But he can’t stop, and Crockett only gets louder with each passing moment. Ethan imagines what it would be like to be the one touching him, to be intimately close as Crockett makes those sounds. To be someone who has sex with him, but not a bastard who beats him and leaves him bruised- rather someone who cares for him as Crockett deserves, and makes him feel good. Cared for. Adored.

The next three days are a cycle of the first. Clubbing. Rough sex that Ethan has to hear. Late breakfast. Shopping. Lazy day in and showing off his body like a provocation. And the three after that, just the same. It’s a cartoon, a repetition so predictable that it leaves Ethan almost bored, save for the third night which always brings Crockett making all sorts of beautiful noises, none the wiser to the way Ethan stifles his own in his pillow in response.

Twelve days on the job, four cycles in, Ethan starts to wonder if this is part of the perpetual game Crockett seems to be playing. They’ll be going clubbing today, for Crockett to get wasted and bring someone home, different each time. Ethan wonders how he lives like this. It has to get boring after a while, stale. The teasing continues, the easy stripping like Ethan’s eyes aren’t there, but other than that, it’s just sad. Someone reliving the same three days in hopes of something changing, which it never does.

Today they’ll be going clubbing, and of course, Crockett decides he needs Ethan’s opinions on what to wear as he stands naked. This time, Ethan spares occasional glances at his body. It’s hard not to. The way his happy trail darkens at his waist and melts into neatly trimmed curls, how he’s soft but still thick and alluring. Ethan’s never been too interested in men but Crockett… but Crockett. There’s no other way to explain it.

“What do you think of these?” Crockett asks, holding up a pair of velvet-looking skinny jeans. “Maybe with my ‘BABE’ shirt?”

“Up to you, you look good in everything.”

“You flirt,” Crockett says in fake shock. “Are you trying to get in my pants?”

“Not particularly.”

Nonetheless, Crockett laughs to himself and gets dressed. Jockstrap, pants, socks, converse, shirt. A ritual to the way he dresses. Always presenting himself the same, always wearing the same type of underwear when he goes clubbing as if it matters. Maybe it does, to the men he brings home. Ethan wouldn’t know.

They go to the club. Crockett dances. He gets pinned against the wall by a man with a lot of piercings and moans as a hand goes down his pants. It’s unmistakable what they’re doing, and as if that isn’t bad enough, Crockett catches Ethan’s eye. Stares at him as he ruts into the tattooed palm. All the way until his eyes flutter shut as he comes in his jeans. And then back to the dance, back to the same repetition there always is, and Ethan watches with too much pain because he knows how this ends. It ends with Crockett dazed and abused in bed, shivering and out of it, promising he’s alright but still bruised when he comes to the club next and hits the repeat button.

Until something deviates from the pattern, just like Crockett getting fucked against the wall. Someone has their arm around Crockett, who can barely hold himself upright. It’s much worse than he usually gets this early in the night. And they’re pulling Crockett out of sight, looking around as if to make sure no one is watching. 

Ethan is watching.

He gets up and follows, hand poised at his side in fear, and silently prays that everything will be alright. But that hope dwindles as Crockett is pulled out a back door. He’s certain now, something is wrong. Really wrong.

In the alley, Crockett’s legs keep giving out beneath him, and the man with him meets Ethan’s eyes with a calm, cold gaze. Not intoxicated. Bad news.

“I’m just taking him home,” the man lies. “Everything’s good here.”

“Let go of him.”

Crockett, for his part, giggles and sways. Ethan searches for a visible weapon, a threat. He can handle this with his bare fists if need be, but he needs to know what he’s up against first. Who’s ready to hurt Crockett, badly. 

“I need you to let go of him.”

Ethan puts his hand on his gun. Ready to draw it, but not to fire- not when Crockett would be too easy to strike as well. And he’d rather die than ever see a bullet pierce someone so innocent, so worth loving. Someone frail and fragile as Crockett is in this moment.

“Last chance to back off,” the man says.

He won’t back down. Not when there’s something so important to do. Ethan pulls his gun, but not before the other man does the same. Cold metal, gleaming bright, dangerous in its glow in the dark alley. And the worst thing he can imagine at this moment is Crockett dying.

Ethan is hesitant to fire, but the other man has no such qualms. It echoes, the sound painful before the shot. He aims. He prays. And another shot, the other man collapsing in a spray of blood, slow motion.

Somehow he winds up on the ground, cold. Staring up at the sky, dull and light-polluted. He hurts.

But Crockett is here, looking down at him with wide eyes and unsure hands. Something is wrong, but at least that man isn’t dragging Crockett away anymore. It’s the two of them, and he’s tired. Sleep would be welcome. But something tells him he shouldn’t. Maybe it’s Crockett, who has wet hands when he cups Ethan’s face. God, but the pain is overwhelming. His chest hurts. He can’t breathe.

“Call 911,” Ethan gets out, and hopes Crockett listens. It’s hard to tell if he will, when he’s high as a kite and probably drugged by the man who was attempting to abduct him. He hurts. He hurts. He hurts. Ethan wonders if he’s dying. “Help me…”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence.

He can’t breathe, let alone speak, but he’s still here, staring up at Crockett’s frightened face until sirens attack his ears and Crockett’s face vanishes from sight. He’s alone but can’t voice it. Without Crockett in his line of sight, he doesn’t know how to make sure he’s safe, especially after everything that just happened to him.

And that’s the last thing he can think about, because something covers his face, and he’s dead to the world.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s a blur. Crockett doesn’t remember most of it right now, but he can easily out together the pieces. Sitting on the edge of a hospital bed. A shock blanket on his shoulders. Blood on his hands. He does remember loud noises, and he definitely remembers Ethan. Staring up at the sky. Unresponsive. Empty. Crockett’s head hurts but that’s nothing because Ethan got really hurt, and it’s all his fault.

He watches the hospital in front of him, but doesn’t process most of it. He’s cold all over. Eventually, his mother arrives. She’s talking but he doesn’t hear her, holding him but he doesn’t feel her. He’s empty. 

And in truth, he isn’t sure what to do with himself in a hospital. He’s done a lot of things, been through a lot of things, but he doesn’t think he’s been to the emergency room since he was young and broke his arm playing with his friends. Something about it leaves him feeling so weak. He’s not weak. Although he’d very much like to get high right now to try and fight back against the pain threatening to burst out of him, explode and coat these sanitized walls in his anger and his fear and his worry for Ethan.

“Ethan,” he says finally. His voice is hollow. “I wanna see Ethan.”

His routine has been disrupted and, although he doesn’t want to admit it, he’s scared. He has structure to his life, although it doesn’t seem so, and without that framework to rely upon, he’s lost. The best place to start is where he strayed. With Ethan. With Ethan, who bled beneath him. That’s where the stains on his hands came from.

He might be crying.

“He’s not awake yet,” his mother says.

Crockett shakes his head. “I wanna see him.”

Whatever the fuck it takes, he wants to see him. It feels like the way to regain his footing and maybe ease some of his fear that Ethan is dead and gone, killed trying to protect him. From what, Crockett doesn’t remember. He doesn’t even remember being scared. Just that there was a gun and whoever had it fired first. Ethan fired in retaliation. He wants to be near him and hear his heart to make sure it’s still beating.

So his mother calls a nurse, who arrives with a wheelchair and helps ease Crockett into it. He wants to say he can walk just fine, but he’s also not sure if that’s true and doesn’t want to find out for certain, just in case. So he allows it, and holds his shock blanket tightly in his bloody hands as the nurse wheels him away, his mother beside him. They don’t talk much. Maybe they should. 

They have to go up two floors, to what Crockett realizes is a recovery area for people who’ve just come out of surgery. There’s a man with a heart pillow beside him, a woman with her head wrapped in bandages. They’re awake. When they reach Ethan, he isn’t. He’s just laying there in a thin hospital gown. There’s those little oxygen nubs in his nose, and three different IVs set up on a steady drip into his arm. Two of them are clear, but one is dark red. Blood. There had been a lot of blood. Crockett looks down at his hands again. This blood is Ethan’s. 

He reaches out slowly, carefully. Frightened, almost, of what might happen.

Nothing does. Crockett takes Ethan’s calloused hand, cold, and holds it tightly, but there’s no response. He’s limp. Unconscious. He probably wouldn’t let Crockett hold his hand if he was awake, because he’s been so stiff. Rebuffing every advance. Treating Crockett like he’s a person, like he’s more than a prop or a picture. Worth knowing.

“Is he going to be okay?”

The nurse picks up the chart hanging on the foot of the hospital bed and scans it briefly. “The bullet went through and through, and missed his lungs and heart, but it did break a couple of his ribs.” She puts the chart back. “It’ll be a slow process, but he should make a full recovery.”

Should is a word Crockett can’t trust. He learned that a long time ago. But he does want to believe that Ethan is going to be okay, because he doesn’t know what it means if Ethan never recovers. If he dies. He doesn’t want him to die.

Little patches and pieces of the blood on his hands flake off onto the white sheets, onto Ethan’s palms. They’re rough, but Crockett likes to imagine they’d be gentle if they touch him. Ethan defended him- twice- and probably wouldn’t hit him, wouldn’t choke him until he passes out. Even if Crockett asked him to.

“Honey, we should probably get you checked out,” his mother says. “The doctors-”

“I’m not leaving him.”

And he means it. Crockett doesn’t want to leave Ethan’s side, not when this is all his fault.

“You were drugged. And we still don’t know who did it, or why.”

“I don’t care.”

True to his word, Crockett stays there, sitting in a wheelchair and exhausted, holding Ethan’s hand, until long after the sun rises over the next morning. A rotating shift of hospital security guards keep an eye on him. He doesn’t think he sleeps. It’s hard to tell when the world is just the shake in each of his tense muscles at the onset of withdrawal, and the world is just him and Ethan.

It’s mid morning when Ethan wakes up, groaning as he shifts beneath the crisp sheets. Alive. He looks around his little recovery suite slowly, his eyes eventually resting on Crockett’s face and staring through him for a long moment before seeming to recognize him. It’s heartbreaking. 

“Ethan?” he says softly, squeezing his hand.

Ethan squeezes back and rubs a hand over his face. “I- are- are you okay?”

His voice is all rough and breathy. Wheezing As soon as he stops talking, he clutches his chest and hisses through his teeth. Broken ribs. Right. But he’s awake again and he hasn’t pulled away from Crockett’s touch.

“I’m okay.” Crockett’s pretty sure he isn’t, though. He feels like crawling into a hole and dying. “You got shot for me.”

Ethan looks down at his body. He pulls at the edge of his gown, revealing the bandage on his chest. There’s a small stain where the blood seeped through. At least it doesn’t seem to be actively bleeding anymore. Crockett thinks that’s a good sign. He’s not a doctor. 

“It’s part of the job.”

It shouldn’t be. Crockett forces out a laugh. Fake. Ethan is hurt because of him and the world has changed. Right now, Ethan is smiling at him so softly, and Crockett isn’t high, and he thinks his chest might explode. He gets out of the chair, legs weak, and hoists himself over the edge of the bed. Immediately, Ethan lets go of his hand to wrap an arm around him, stabilizing him and keeping him close. Held. Close. Safe. Crockett rests his head against Ethan’s shoulder, careful of his chest because it has to hurt, even with the morphine they must have given him.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“It’s not your fault.”

Except for the fact that it is. If not for Crockett, for his recklessness and naivety, Ethan would have never been shot. He doesn’t argue, but he feels it in his blood, just as he feels the steady rise and fall of Ethan’s chest, hears the rasp of his breath. He’s hurt. And Crockett watches Ethan find the little remote attached to his IV with several buttons. One to call a nurse. One to give him a fresh hit of morphine. One to raise his bed, one to lower. Plenty that aren’t labelled. Ethan’s thumb finds the painkiller button and presses down hard, once and then twice.

“Going to resign now?”

Ethan laughs, nowhere near as full as it used to be when he would acknowledge a joke or a flirt. It’s shallow. Maybe he really will give up, which Crockett really ought to have expected, but hurts more than he wants to admit. Whoever comes next will be worse. Crockett has gotten used to how protective and kind Ethan is. He doesn’t want to lose him.

“No, but I’m gonna be out of commission for a while.” He coughs and winces. “Just until I heal up.”

He’s not leaving. But he will be gone, and Crockett doesn’t trust people promising to come back. They never do. He winds up alone, hurt, bruised. Those marks from his last night of partying before the attack are beginning to fade, but they’re still all too visible and normally would fade only to be replaced by new ones.

“Promise me you’ll come back.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

And Ethan starts to fall asleep again as the morphine kicks in, going dead to the world. But his heart still beats, and Crockett lays with him as a nurse comes to check in. She tells him to move. He doesn’t. He won’t. Just rests with him, not caring about doctors that come and go, security guards that change shifts, and various efforts to get him to eat or drink something.

Nothing else matters.

Just Ethan and the fact that he’s here and he said he wouldn’t leave.


	5. Chapter 5

Ethan isn’t released from the hospital for a week. Seven days he spends, the first three on complete bed rest, the last four doing short walks around his room. But all of them are spent in pain. And Crockett stays beside him. He sleeps in bed beside him, holds his hand, brings him food. And strange enough, he doesn’t see any signs of him taking anything. His pupils stay normal, and he doesn’t disappear randomly or reek with the scent of weed. It’s like he’s a different person now. More reserved and careful and kind.

The week is like living in a different world, if he’s honest. He didn’t realize exactly how alone he is back home until no one visits or even asks after him. It’s just Crockett and the shift of nurses and guards, all moving between a haze of painkillers and checkups.

“I’ve hired an at-home nurse,” Crockett says as he pushes Ethan’s wheelchair toward the exit. It’s slow going, but he tries, until the guard takes over at the end. “I’m not a doctor. I can’t do everything. My mom had all the candidates vetted, and everything is gonna be just fine.”

Funny enough, Ethan believes him. It’s hard not to, when he sounds so earnest and genuine. He nods. Talking is still more breath than he has most of the time. At least it’s better than being shot overseas, and he’s got a clean, warm bed to rest up in. A nurse dedicated to him. And Crockett, who has suddenly learned how to take things seriously. Who uses his less sore arm as a pillow. Who has kissed him twice when he was drifting in and out. Maybe more times, but he can’t be so sure. 

The car ride sucks. The movement, the vibration, agitates his broken ribs and leaves him doubled over in heavy pain. His last dosage of painkillers before leaving absolutely wasn’t enough. For the first time, he actively considers seeing if Crockett has something to dull it, but that’s not who he is, and he wants to encourage his newfound sobriety for as long as it lasts.

It’s good to get back into a bed. This one is much softer than the hospital mattress, plush and full, with layers of blankets and pillows. It welcomes him, and he’s so busy sinking into its warmth that he needs a moment before recognizing the bedroom as Crockett’s. Posters on every wall, clothes on the floor, an ashtray beside him. Ethan buries his face in the pillow and it smells like Crockett’s cologne and the particular strain of weed he likes. But it’s faint. Probably from before the incident.

And Crockett gets into bed with him easily, smiling, bright. He’s not the same person anymore.

“What changed about you?” he asks. His voice is still raspy, heavy. “You’re acting different.”

He shrugs slightly. “I think this is the longest I’ve gone without getting drunk or high in years.”

“Why did you start?”

Being this heavily medicated has dulled his filter, and his curiosity burns too brightly now that he has nothing else to focus on. But it hasn’t made him stupid, and he’s easily able to see the surprise, the hurt, the panic, that flash over Crockett’s face one after another before being covered by the usual mask of charming flirting.

“For fun.”

It’s a blatant lie, but not one Ethan has it in him to challenge right now. He’s too tired. And it’s easy to lull himself into a soft warmth when Crockett throws an arm over his waist and lays with him. Close and affectionate. Not going anywhere any time soon. He rests more, with Crockett there, and it feels serene until Crockett props himself up on one elbow and starts kissing Ethan's chest. His breath is warm even through the fabric of Ethan's shirt, giving him a tantalizing glimpse of what's being offered. The chance to allow himself to give in to the flirting, as well as to give Crockett the opportunity to experience sex as something other than pain.

“You know I’m not exactly up for anything rough,” he warns as Crockett pulls up his shirt. “I got shot, you know.”

“I’ll do the work.”

His lips on Ethan’s stomach, no barrier in the middle, are a shock that can never be prepared for, making his heart pound. He can’t help reaching up to stroke Crockett’s soft hair. No product. Just loose and messy. Bedhead.

“Are you sure you want this?” he asks. He has to. “Don’t do this if you’re not sure.”

That makes Crockett hesitate. “Do you not want me? Am I- Do you want me to stop?”

“As long as you’re sure this is what you want,” he says, “I want it too.”

Crockett goes back to kissing him, and once he reaches the waist of Ethan’s sweatpants, he pulls them and his underwear down. In theory, he’ll put his mouth to use, but instead he gets up on his knees and makes grabby hands at the dresser.

“Lube, please.”

Ethan finds it and hands it over, followed by a foil-wrapped condom. It’s not like Crockett wouldn’t have asked, since they’re here, but he figures he’ll make things easier. Immediately, Crockett coats his hand in lube and reaches behind himself. Although he can’t see what he’s doing, he’d be a fool not to know. And the sounds Crockett makes are a million times more intoxicating when there’s no wall between them, no other man drawing those moans out of him.

“You’re beautiful,” he says.

In answer, Crockett ducks his head and shifts his attention to putting a condom and a thick layer of lube on Ethan’s cock. His hand is warm, tight. His slow strokes are like having his soul pulled out of his body in the best kind of way. Ethan’s hips rise up into the touch without permission, sending a fresh ache through his body and making him groan. He’ll have to stay still.

It’s only a couple of minutes before Crockett gets on his knees above Ethan, steadying him in one hand and bracing himself on Ethan’s chest with the other. The lube is some cross between slippery and sticky, and come to think of it, Ethan isn’t sure Crockett spent enough time prepping himself, but before he can say a word all the air rushes out of his chest.

Crockett’s so tight around him, warm, perfect. His ragged breathing hurts more, enough that he’d take another dose of his painkillers if his mind wasn’t falling apart at the feeling. Fuck. He doesn’t even have time to process it before Crockett grabs his good arm and pulls it up, guides Ethan’s hand to his throat and tightens his fingers for him.

“I don’t…”

“Please?” Crockett asks. 

His eyes are wet. Glassy.

“Please, Ethan.”

Ethan doesn’t want to hurt him. But it’s better he does this than Crockett seeking someone out who won’t be so careful with such a fragile life. He can feel Crockett’s pulse as he applies steady pressure. Not too much. But enough to make those teary eyes roll back in his head and his cock leak precum down the sides. Ethan wants to touch him. But he only has the one hand, and it’s hard to think when he’s being ridden like it’s the end of the world.

“Harder.”

He listens. But he’s still careful, and now Crockett has stopped speaking in favor of moaning, breathy and desperate, hurried like the way he fucks himself on Ethan’s cock. His hands, flat against Ethan’s chest for stability, make it even harder to breathe and amp up the pain. He can’t do this much longer. But Crockett is beautiful, and he’s crying softly as they both come close to finishing. Something like this feels like it should last forever, but is instead short and fast. It’s empty of emotion. And when it’s over, Ethan feels used instead of satisfied. Sure, Crockett took care of him, made eye contact as he licked his own cum off his hand after, but Ethan hurts and there’s marks on Crockett’s neck and this is nothing but pain.

Crockett looks him over and he’s still crying, but seems to be ignoring it. “I’m going to get you some water and your meds,” he croaks. His voice is thick with tears, croaky with the way Ethan choked him, and he limps to Ethan’s backpack against the wall. For as much as Ethan didn’t want to hurt him, he feels no better than the many who have come before and treated him like an object.

While Ethan takes his meds, he watches Crockett roll a blunt and light it up. Smoke in the air. The smell. But it makes the tears dry up and Crockett crawls back into bed with him, smokes with the dry air blowing over Ethan’s chest and his body too warm where they touch.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Crockett answers. His smoke curls upward in the room and rests against the ceiling with nowhere to go. Trapped. “You’re not the one who made me like this.”

“Who did?”

Of course, he gets no answer. Instead, he begins to drift off under the influence of his painkillers, drowning under their comforting weight and the feeling of Crockett clinging to him so easily.

“It doesn’t matter.” Before he falls asleep, he feels Crockett kiss his chest. “I feel safe with you.”

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr @princessbekker


End file.
